


Treasured

by darlingred1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Coming Untouched, Fingerfucking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Service Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingred1/pseuds/darlingred1
Summary: It’s a bit like losing himself in his Mind Palace, that moment when Sherlock sinks a single finger into John’s arsehole.





	

It’s a bit like losing himself in his Mind Palace, that moment when Sherlock sinks a single finger into John’s arsehole.

His body becomes mere transport, a tool, an instrument designed for a higher purpose—except rather than Sherlock’s mind, it exists to serve John. Sherlock’s lips (wet with John’s saliva), his nipples (red and swollen from John’s teeth), his cock (hard, so hard, and straining towards John)—all of it pointless, inconsequential. Nothing compared to the gland in John’s arse, so soft and spongy under Sherlock’s fingertip but growing firmer as he rubs it, toys with it, lavishes well-deserved attention on it.

“Oh,” John sighs, “fuck.” Lying on his side, he reaches behind with one arm and grips his own arse cheek, spreading himself. His hips twitch, driving himself onto Sherlock’s slick finger. His hole squelches.

It’s a treasure, to have him like this. Sherlock never imagined he would. John who even now grimaces at the word _bisexual_ , who clenches his jaw at the (correct) assumption that he and Sherlock are romantically involved. Sherlock expected every sexual act would be a struggle, an exercise in tiptoeing and second-guessing and spewing reassurances about John’s masculinity.

Instead, John eagerly holds his own arse cheeks open and bounces his hips, grinding his loose hole back and forth over Sherlock’s knuckles. Once he gets going, breathing “Oh god, yes” with every bounce, Sherlock doesn’t even have to move. In fact, he keeps his distance. To press himself to John’s back—or, worse, to drape himself over John, entwine their legs, hook his chin over John’s shoulder—would be too akin to holding John down, restricting him.

A travesty, when John is so lovely, unrestrained like this. His shoulders tense, the muscles flexing beneath his gnarled old wound, sweat dampening the hair at his nape and dribbling down his spine, down his arse, right where he’s fucking himself on Sherlock’s finger like he was born for it.

And just like that, John’s movements stutter to a stop, and he turns his face into the pillow, panting. “God. Give me another.”

He trembles while Sherlock refreshes the lube and lets out a soft, broken moan when his arse opens easily, greedily, for a second finger. Immediately, he thrusts his hips, returning to his earlier rhythm and then surpassing it until he’s buggering himself hard enough that the bed groans and the headboard bangs against the wall.

Sherlock lets him, although his hand is stiff, his wrist a bit sore. He keeps his fingers crooked just right, where John needs them. He wishes that he could see John’s face. Easier to deduce John’s wants when he can read the line of John’s mouth, the position of his brows, the number and depth of crinkles in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, but there’s nothing for it. And it doesn’t matter, really. When John needs something more, Sherlock knows, he won’t hesitate to—

“Bite me,” John says, although he barely gets past the B before Sherlock is lunging closer, mouth open, sinking his teeth into the skin just above John’s scar.

John jerks with a cry, his arse clenching, and the soft wet sounds of Sherlock’s fingers shoving in and out of his hole grow louder as the angle changes. John arches into Sherlock’s mouth with a blissful “Oh fucking hell, yes” that has Sherlock’s free hand moving on instinct, reaching to wrap around John’s cock.

John grabs his wrist, stopping him.

It’s like the world snapping into focus, that moment when he’s jolted out of his Mind Palace and the solution is so plain in front of him as if it’s been there all along. The transport becomes suddenly vital. He needs to _move_.

_Yes_ , he thinks, desperate. How long has it been since John last managed without a hand on his cock? Months. It’s been months. _Yes, yes_.

Sherlock removes his teeth and—oh, who cares about keeping his distance?—stares over John’s shoulder, his cheek against John’s ear, sharing the heat of John’s skin. John’s prick is red and twitching, the head exposed, a surge of precome dripping down the crown every time John’s rocks his arse back and jabs Sherlock’s fingers into his prostate.

John tugs at Sherlock’s wrist. “Throat,” he growls. “Now.”

_Oh god_ , Sherlock thinks with a shudder. He knows that command well, although it’s been— _oh_ , months. He shakes off John’s grasp and brings his hand to John’s throat. The muscles contract as John swallows once, and then Sherlock presses gently, halting a second one.

The sound from John’s mouth is tortured, euphoric—so sweet that Sherlock can’t help but lay a sloppy kiss to his ear and then his temple. John’s faith, his trust—it cracks Sherlock as surely as a bone saw, leaving him bruised and weak.

“God,” John says, little more than a whisper. “God. Uhn.”

When John’s rhythm falters, Sherlock takes over, finger-fucking John’s hole until his arm aches and John is thrashing and gasping, beyond words. Sherlock moves with him, still refusing to restrain him even if he is draped across John’s body, which is writhing and sweating, as powerful as a storm.

John’s chin dips, another command that Sherlock knows well. He abandons John’s throat in favour of shoving two fingers into John’s open mouth, and he groans long and deep when John closes his lips and sucks. John’s tongue swipes and curls around Sherlock’s fingertips, wet and tender, and for a fraction of a second Sherlock thinks he might cry. Why, he has no idea, so he hisses in a breath and rambles nonsense to stop himself.

“Good,” he says, and: “That’s it. So sweet. Letting me fill you at both ends.” And when John hitches one leg up, moaning gratefully as Sherlock fucks him deeper: “Yes. It feels good, doesn’t it? Tell me all about it.” And when John takes Sherlock’s fingers down his throat and gags: “Oh, shush. We both know you can take much more than that.”

Eventually, John lifts his chin again, arching his neck, and Sherlock returns his hand to John’s throat, smearing saliva over John’s pulse point as John gulps and groans. He rocks his hips, in contrast to Sherlock’s pistoning fingers rather than with them, so Sherlock adjusts accordingly, following John’s body in languid, deep gliding thrusts that grind Sherlock’s fingertips again and again into his prostate.

He’s close, Sherlock knows. Very, very close—and indeed, moments later, the telltale indication: “Please,” John says, practically sobbing as he fucks himself. “Please, god. Please.”

The pleading is pointless and incomprehensible, really—as though Sherlock is going to deny him anything now—but Sherlock is used to it by this point. “Yes,” he answers, emphatic. “Yes, anything.”

He lowers his mouth to the bite mark on John’s shoulder, which is pink and puffy, and nuzzles it, then traces his tongue around the swollen edges. He doesn’t see John come, but he feels it—John’s hole clamping almost painfully around his fingers, John’s gliding rhythm breaking off abruptly into little aborted jerks of his hips that no doubt match the wet pulses of his cock.

He sobs all the way through his orgasm, sounding like the pleasure is being wrenched from him bit by bit. Afterwards, he lies flat on the bed, his whole body heaving as he pants, while Sherlock laves the mark on John’s shoulder, savouring the moment.

“Two minutes,” John says, more breath than voice. “Just…give me two minutes.”

Sherlock kisses John’s neck, more than content. “As long as you need.”

 

 


End file.
